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Salva Nos - Side A
'Crown's Refuge Palisade ' ---- ::Running around the perimeter of the bluff upon which the township Crown's Refuge stands, the Crown's Refuge Palisade is a testament to the accomplishments that Talus Kahar has achieved in shaping the sovereign outpost into something greater than the sum of its parts. ::The Palisade itself is a fortification consisting of a strong fence made of numerous fifteen-foot stakes driven into the ground, with the purpose of this being to surround Crown's Refuge with a wall in order to fortify its position atop Refuge Bluff. Combined with the advantage of height, and the craftsmanship of the palisade wall itself, this is a purpose it accomplishes well. ::Six watchtowers have been built into the Palisade wall to add extra security to the township it protects, with four being situated at the "corners" of the township's boundary, and two flanking the main gate that leads both in and out of the township within. A walkway is set around three-tenths below the top of the palisade, allowing people to patrol or walk around the outskirts of Crown's Refuge, and serving as a vantage point for archers to pepper animals and Wildlings with arrows from behind protection should the need arise. ::It is this gate that you stand at now; the path leading back down Refuge Bluff resting to the south, the Palisade stretching off to the east and west as they circle the hill, and Crown's Refuge itself only a few more steps to the north, across the threshold of the Palisade gate, and beyond the aegis once more. ---- To be a star, you must shine your own light, follow your own path, and don't worry about the darkness. For that is when the stars shine brightest. It is the Seventh hour by the Shadow on Idleforge, the 7th day of Whistlewind in the year 626, and the Wildlands are bathed in pitch. Without the artificial light that burns within the Townships of Fastheld, night falls fast upon these harsh lands, the darkness a predator eager to stalk those who remain under the watch of the heavens. Darker still are those shadows that play within the Verdigris Forest to the south; a place that conceals natural beauty, beloved tranquility, and ominous secrets, all in equal measure. And so it is that Serath Kahar, a man of many titles and many deeds, stands upon the Palisade again this night, beneath dark clouds that deny the vision of the moons above, watching - as he always does, since he arrived - the southern forest with grim determination and a quiet disposition that speaks of speaks of much, even without words, regarding the nature of the soul within. He is clad in his usual attire, longbow in hand and quiver on back, as he keeps that faithful sentry upon the wooden bastion that lines the edges of Refuge Bluff; his cloak snapping quietly in the breeze that such an elevated position usually produces. And he watches. And though the constant vigil of the palisade sentries continues, counting amongst their number at this moment in time is not Vhramis Wolfsbane. No, the so called Protector of Crown's Refuge is currently dealing with his own small issue, that being a rather nervous and upset looking fellow inhabitant of the township. And though the Ranger moves with quick steps towards the palisade, the pursuit from the man continues. Bits of their conversation floats up to where Serath is located. "...told you already... back to Fastheld... not permanent..." "You might try then, as I did, to find a sky so full of stars it will blind you again." Serath speaks into the darkness; his voice but a whisper as he continues to glance upon the shadow-bathed forest below the bluff, quoting the text merely for personal gain; an oath, it seems, to add fortification of will before the darkness is fully beset upon the Wildlands. "Only no sky can blind you now. Even with all that iridescent magic up there, your eye will no longer trace constellations. You’ll care only about the darkness and you’ll watch it for hours, for days, maybe even for years, trying in vain to believe you’re some kind of indispensable fate-appointed sentinel, as if just by looking you could actually keep it all at bay. It will get so bad you’ll be afraid to look away. You’ll be afraid to sleep." He sighs, pulling that ice-blue gaze of the Imperial line away from the ominous shadows of the Verdigris and shifting in turn to look upon the approaching Vhramis, and his new “puppy”. It wasn't unexpected, the upset reactions that Vhramis was recieving to the news that he was leaving. It was the despair that the population of the small settlement expressed upon Talus' leaving that caused him to stay, after all. Finally, the ranger pauses at the base of one of the ladders leading up to the top of the wooden wall, turning about to face his pursuer. "It's essential that you take care of my lodgings while I'm gone, Greyor. It needs to be in top shape for when I get back, else I don't know what I'll do." And being given such an important mission, as it were, atop of the additional promise of Vhramis' return, seems to ground Greyor. The man nods his head, his mouth tightening, and without another word, turns about to head away. Sighing as he watches him depart, Wolfsbane turns about to ascend the ladder, the softly glowing bow slung over his shoulders fighting back the growing darkness. "Logistical problems?" The Prince of the Blood purrs as Vhramis draws closer, amusement flickering within his icy gaze, "Or just the weight of being the savior of the Wildlands resting heavily on your shoulders?" He leans casually against the spiked tips of the Palisade's surface, regarding his friend with mutual respect. ”Hm. Seems they've grown attached," Vhramis explains, climbing up on the walk from the ladder. "Some of them tend to think that I'm the thing keeping them alive out here." He shakes his head, looking to Serath and shrugging his shoulders, even as a bit of a sheepish look comes to his face. The ranger steps over to the edge of the pallisade, giving a cursory look to the visible wilderness. "They don't realize that they do most of the work." "Heresy grows from idleness." is the answer that Serath gives, quoting from one of the old Church mandates that very few but the Church ever actually listened to to begin with; a fact evident upon the mocking smile that caresses his features as he speaks it. He shrugs, regardless, causing the arrows within his quiver to rustle in complaint. "Still, I don't think you'll find any of that here. Maybe they're just so used to the labor that they don't notice it anymore. Living in the shadow of a shadow can do that to you." "They have their own Light," Vhramis answers in almost a murmur, his expression growing a bit sad. "And...while that shadow they were living in was that of Drake's wings, now it's that of any number of looming black wildlings." His lips purse momentarily as he watches the creeping darkness of the growing night, almost symbolic in a way. "I can only hope their small light won't be overwhelmed." Turning his head to look upon the small community below, alight in the warmth of latern glow and the crimson hues of hearth fires burning within homesteads, Serath can only agree. Still, the Prince of the Blood is of a pragmatic breed of Royal, and quickly arrives at a truthful conclusion. "If it is, or even if it isn't, I doubt that our being here will make a great deal of difference either way." He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture, turning back to his friend. "I'm a man of many talents, Vhram, but changing the path of fate isn't one of them." He pauses then, considering that. Considering that statement when applied against himself. Considering it when applied against Vhramis... and only then does he realise that they both have, time and time again... "But on this scale?" he whispers, asking the question of his own thoughts. His left hand running atop the pointed tip of one of the palisade logs, Wolfsbane doesn't seem to have a ready answer for the Prince's musings. Though a faintly pained look does cross his face. "Fate or not, I don't think I'd be able to leave them to destruction. I'll come back, in the end. I have to." He glances to his side, towards Serath, all seriousness in his expression. "I'm sure you know as well as I do, that abandoning hope is akin to dying." The sigh that answers that statement is a wounded one indeed; not from the words of one Vhramis Wolfsbane, from the experiences of a Prince that knows all too well the priceless value of hope. "All too well." he affirms, placing an idle hand upon the hilt of one of those sleeping rapiers that he seems to have acquired at some point out in the Wildlands. "You won't be alone, either." he promises, "And there'll be a place to return to. Of that I'm sure." "I'm quite sure there will be," Vhramis nods his head after a moment, finally finding a bit of his deep buried humor. "I don't think the aforementioned Fate would allow me to miss something of such magnitude. She seems to enjoy watching me struggle, at times." "You have no idea." Serath purrs in reply to that, offering a knowing smile of shared feelings in regards to that line of conversation. A smile that quickly melts into a sharp expression of concern, the Prince looking sharply back towards the shadows of the Verdigris forest once more, ice-blue eyes narrowing with deadly purpose as he scans the negritude edges of that vast forest, cloak swirling in the wake of his movement. His features take on a look of stoic acceptance; neither calm nor worried, neither surprised nor unperturbed. However, for all intents and purposes, nothing seems to be there. The sudden change in demeanor is not lost on Wolfsbane, who joins in on looking over the nearby forest, his eyes searching for whatever it is that drew his companion's attention. He does not speak, falling into his own focus, as well as from a desire to not disrupt Serath's. Though his eyes are narrowed like that of a hawk about to swoop upon an unsuspecting rabbit, the tone of his voice is surprisingly casual; as if he's been expecting this since he arrived in Crown's Refuge. As if each night upon the Palisade, without fail, had been in preparation of this moment. "Sound the alarm." the Prince of the Blood calmly warns, giving Vhramis a sidelong glance of those sharp blue eyes just as the quiet of the night is broken for the familiar whistle of an arrow in flight; one that screeches through the air to a point that just narrowly misses Serath's face, so close in fact that a thin trail of crimson now snakes across his cheek. The edge of an arrow head. A thump from somewhere behind the two Kahar indicates that the arrow had found something to stick into. Through it all, Serath hasn't flinched. "They're here." The only word suitable for such a moment, at least that comes to Vhramis' mind, is a muttered, "Shit." The ranger spins away, running a few paces down the palisade, while his hands lift to cup in front of his mouth. "Gaelan! Blow the bloody horn! We're under attack again!" Wolfsbane's yell causes an instant flurry of motion and curses from a small group of men a bit away, and one fumbles with something on their belt, the mentioned horn. It's lifted to his lips, and he winds it hard, sending the noise throughout the settlement, and wilderness beyond. Drawing an arrow from his quiver in one fluid movement, Serath sends forth a shaft of wood and iron into the darkness with a casual grace so effortless that his very presence upon that Palisade seems out of place amidst the chaos that's starting to brew within Crown's Refuge. One arrow loosed to trade for the arrow fired against him; the whistle lost under the volume of the remnants of the horn's warning cry. Then another arrow. Then a third. And then Serath ducks down just in time to avoid the expected hail of two more missiles as the attack begins in earnest. "Down!" he hisses. "WOOT!" comes forth a primal cry from within the shadows of the Verdigris. “I hate that sound." Serath laments. All too familiar, the noises of a Wildling assault. Vhramis doesn't need to be told to get down, the man already dropping to his knees to take cover behind the wooden shield that is the palisade. "South side!" he shouts to the settlement's population the apparent main direction of the assault. "Watch the other approaches!" A hand lowers to the quiver strapped to his side, uncapping it. The whistles of numerous arrows being loosed upon the outpost of Crown's Refuge fills the night now, amidst the frantic shouting of those within the protective barrier upon the bluff as they scramble to mount a defense, and the occasional scream of someone who was unfortunate enough to be standing in the path of a falling arrow. The Wildlings may be firing uphill, from within cover, but it doesn't take a marksman's skill to get lucky. "Well now." Serath notes, shifting into a kneeling position that permits him to keep his head below the Palisade's edge, though with enough room to fire a blind shot over it. Twang! "I think it's going to be a long night." Twang! "I don't suppose these ones tunnel?" Vhramis mutters out a question as the arrows rain down overhead. He winces at the occasional cry from an outcast, before his face takes a rather dispassionate look. The gifted longbow is lowered from his shoulder and an arrow set. "This isn't another small raid, is it?" he adds to Serath, already knowing the answer, as he aims the bow up and arcs an arrow over the wall, joining in on the blind shooting. "We'll know one way or the other sooner or later." Serath offers by way of pragmatic reasoning, nocking another arrow in the longbow which he swiftly sends forth into the unknown - Twang! - to be rewarded with a "yelp" from somewhere down below. By this point, a few of the other outcasts have managed to scramble to the Palisade, and are promptly doing the same as everyone else; firing blind and hoping for the best. Those who stand fully to take aim are quickly shot down by blind fire being exchanged from before. Which, in turn, leads to a resounding WOOT! from below as those who haven't quite yet learned how to use "human toys" get ready to use their own natural weapons; claws, teeth, and a hell of a lot of anger. Unnoticed, unearthly light flashes briefly through the cracks of Talus Kahar's house, though no other stirrings can be witnessed for a time afterwards - a period in which Ashlynn begins to search through the place, looking for the wayward steward, before the rising bedlam outside catches her attention. Pushing through the door, she pauses upon its threshold in dumb surprise upon witnessing the building siege, before sucking in a deep breath, girding her courage, and then joining the others running toward the palisade, searching its edges desperately. "Vhramis!" If one were to know what they were looking for, Vhramis would probably stand out like a sore thumb. The longbow he holds glows with a soft blue light, which probably isn't a good thing when arrows are being shot at you. "Keep your heads down!" he shouts to anyone who can hear him over the turmoil, having seen an individual take an arrow for their mistake. He doesn't seem to hear anyone talking to /him/, however, aside from Serath. The ranger arcs another arrow over the wall. The "Roar!" that follows Vhramis's shot is soon followed by a death rattle and a thump that can be heard even from the Palisade. One down... a seething horde to go. It's a start, at least. A start the preludes Serath's decision to cast down his own longbow, pull free the quiver on his back, and hand both over to Vhramis. "You're going to need these more than I do." he notes, as the scream of arrows whistles overhead. That said, the Prince promptly stands and runs off along the Palisade towards the main gates, barking out commands to those he passes, swift as any cat. "Reinforce the forward gate!" he calls, drawing closer to that region himself, "I don't want anything to get through!". Curious glances of the "who does he think he is?" kind are the answer he gets, but the power of the commanding tones of a seasoned General soon break /that/ trend. "Secure the DAMN gate or those Wildlings will be the least of your prob-" Wildlings do, indeed, become the least of their problems at that point as a light of crimson erupts from the forest line - momentarily highlighting the extent of the Wildling forces currently sneaking up the hill - and sweeps forth like an arrow of fire to impact against the very forward gate that Serath wanted secured. An arrow of fire that promptly explodes on impact, tearing the gate from the wall and searing anything nearby with tendrils of flame and heat. More than one defender is incinerated in that blast. More than one other is scorched from the fallout. All in that area are thrown to the ground from the impact. "Vhramis!" Serath calls from a prone position, licks of flames dancing on his cloak. "They have a MAGE! Shoot him! SHOOT HIM!" The "Mage" in question - believe it or not - can easily be spotted. He was the source of that fireball, and his claws still glow with tendrils of magical energy. He also seems to be wearing an almost comical outfit consisting of an old and tattered rug as an odd parody of a Mage's robe. Comical, had the wearer not just killed people. Not quite near enough yet to be thrown off her feet, but close enough to stop and cringe, staggering, blinking aghast at the destruction with arms half-warding her head. Ashlynn struggles for her wits amidst the chaos, not the least disruptor being the seeming phantom glimpses of a dead prince dodging through the rushing bodies. But when a man staggers into her, sobbing while he claws ineffectually at shrapnel-blinded eyes, she puts all useless thoughts aside to grab his arm and shove him toward the side, trying to help guide his drunken weavings away from the mess even as she searches for others that are hurt, ready to lead them aside as well. The crouched Wolfsbane shields his face from the sudden wave of heat resulting from the massive blast, crying out in surprise. Though the friendly suggestion that he kill whatever it was that had done such a thing is understood, if not because he heard Serath's yell, then because he saw the devastation. Not heeding his own advice, Vhramis peeks up, scouting about the area and picking out his target. An arrow is fitted, and the man rises, bow held out horizontal in front of his face as he takes aim, and fires. That done, he's wise enough to throw himself down, should he not get killed on the spot. Oh how the Lady's Flight sings in the hands of Vhramis Wolfsbane! The arrow is nocked and fired, the bowstring snapping with a harmonious shiver of sound as it looses forth an arrow into the very heart of the darkness below with a power unique only to the Warbow that fired it.’’ ‘’The Black Mage below roars with amusement at the power his own claws have granted him; at the destruction his own claws have wrought upon the Humans behind their wall. At the - urk. Oh yes, the Lady's Flight has tasted blood this night. Impersonal, but effective all the same. The Wildling Warriors that escort the Mage look curiously at their demi-god, expecting more than just a "gurgle" from him. Expecting more carnage... not expecting the Mage to collapse in a heap, drooling his own blood, grasping at the arrow lodged in his throat. Gurgle. Well, that's done it. The Wildlings charge. The arrows have stopped. That's one good thing. No more fireballs. That's another. However, the front gate is down, and that's pretty bad. There's no defense there to stall in time for the second gate to close. That's pretty bad, too. Thus, back on his feet, Serath decides to become that defense, tagging a few Swordsmen and Warriors in his wake to help form a line against the charging Wildlings. Quick as a cat, he's down the Palisade, back on solid ground, and moving with all the grace that his feline nature grants him, Rapiers in both hands as swiftly as a flowing river of steel. A call of "Supressive fire!" and something about a "Killing Zone" are called back to the Archers. Could have been from Serath. Might not have been. At this point, it doesn't seem to matter. Ashlynn staggers as the man she is coaxing along begins to sag, and she looks around desperately before finally clutching at a young man - barely more than a youth, still gawky and long-limbed and currently staring slack-jawed with glassy eyes at the battle - shouting to be heard over the sounds of roars and screams, "Help me!" A firm shake manages to turn his wandering attention to her, and she all but heaves the man's growing weight toward him. "Your name! Give me your name, and help me divert casualties!" The youth staggers beneath the weight, mouth working silently for a moment, before he finally stammers, "C-Collin." "Move, Collin!" Ashlynn growls, giving him a rough shove in the right direction before she is turning back into the palisade's shadow. Vhramis can only assume that his shot had the desired effect by the awful noise the wildling charge makes. As the ranged attacks cease, the man dares to rise again, running down the walk towards the burnt out breech in the palisade. Now free to retaliate with his own particular type of magic, the Lady's Flight begins a constant song, the ranger firing arrows into the swarm of wildlings as fast as he can nock them. Ashlynn dares to cast only the occasional, furtive glance toward the main body of fighting as she dodges between two guardsmen rushing by, checking on the bodies of those who had been felled by the first flights of arrows for life. Along the way, she tags another man who had sustained what seemed a superficial shoulder wound to help her carry back other casualties, and with the aid of Collin and other youths he had found along the way, they begin to sort through those that still might be saved. And Vhramis is obviously agitated (and who can blame him?), because the man falls into his old tic of talking to himself, as he is wont to do while under stress. "Could have stayed Steward of Wedgecrest," he grunts, an arrow slicing through the cheek and embedding itself into one particularly ugly wildling. "Lots of wine. Lots of respect. Nice soft bed. No wildlings..." Ashlynn eventually pauses, leaning over with hands on knees to catch her breath, dirt and blood-smeared, squinting warily at the tangle of snarling Wildlings and sharp-edged metal flashing in the wake of flickering flames. Close enough to see the wild glint of inhuman eyes and teeth, she seems to be gauging whether to risk venturing any closer to try and drag out more bodies when a glint of blue up and in the corner draws her gaze upwards. Blinking at the unmistakable glow of Vhramis' gifted weapon, she draws breath reflexively to call to him before she bites her lip, rethinking the wisdom of distracting him in this mess. Finally, as the original guardsman who had elected to help her play triage pulls up to her shoulder, she straightens with renewed energy and grimly stalks forward toward the nearest moaning body she can reach. "...sure, Trayson may have been a bit annoying," Vhramis continues to mutter, leaning forward a touch to drive an arrow down into the top of a wildling's skull, "But he was still a friend. I bet it was him putting the vinegar in my wine though. The bastard." He suddenly straightens and glances behind him, watching out for any wildlings that happen to be trying to climb up the wood. The charging Wildlings advance up the hill in waves, the leading most of these heading towards what used to be the main gate, jaws snapping and claws flexing in obvious excitement of the easy entry into the Human town that has been presented (by the now dead Mage), and the slaughter that will no doubt follow. Oh yes, blood will flow. The defenders that are forming a defensive line at the Palisade Gate will just be a bonus. Especially the one with that cold gaze, and those two blades, and that determined flourish, and... As one, the horde of Wildlings advancing on the entrance to Crown's Refuge promptly stop, each looking as stunned as a knight who's dug in his spurs and roared at his horse to charge - only to have it turn it's head and calmly inform him that it just isn't in the mood just now, thank you. Oh, they know this one. They killed this one. Now he's come back to haunt them. Shades. "In Rowena's name." the commanding imperial tones of Serath Kahar purr, invoking the highest power of faith and honor that his personal strength can call upon, rapier leading as he gestures to the massing Wildlings. "You will not cross this gate." A flourish of his blades prompts some of the Wildlings to take a cautious step back; only for a dominating snarl, one as powerful as the Prince's own voice, to warn them against such an action. A Warchief. And so, torn between a rock and a hard place (or claws and hard steel) the Wildlings push on. The defenders at the broken hate hold their positions, and soon the song of steel against claws, of shouts against snarls, of life against death, fills the air against the backdrop of singing missiles, screaming men, burning wood, and charging Wildlings. The lines holds, thanks to those at the gate defending it, and the arrows of those above raining death upon those still advancing - arrows from one glowing bow, it seems, cutting down more Wildlings than most - but the horde seems endless, and it only seems a matter of time before it will break. Time that those attempting to close the second gate are currently borrowing. Time that the seething mass of Wildlings wish to consume. All seems bleak indeed. Ashlynn back-pedals furiously when the defending line surges back unexpectedly, wavering and then strengthening according to the chaotic whimsies of the attacking numbers. She stares, aghast while she hauls on the shoulder of the limb guardsman she had been trying to save, and her companion voices her thoughts as he grunts and pulls on the unconscious man's other shoulder, "Too dangerous! Will have to wait for them to sort themselves out..." Grimacing in resignation, she nods curtly and cedes her position to one of Collin's friends, instructing them to watch for survivors staggering their way, but to concentrate on what wounded they've gathered for now. Standing uncertainly by the palisade, she can't help but look up again to pick out Vhramis' figure, and after a long moment of deliberation, clenches her jaw and determinedly climbs her way up to join the defenders atop. Vhramis remains unaware that he is being joined by his friend, the man engaged in his attempts to repel the assault. Or to at least do his part in repelling it. And, of course, the whole talking to himself thing. Wolfsbane looks from the wall back to the battle below, beginning to fire arrows again, though apparently trying to pick out the larger wildlings to shoot now. Wiping back sweat-limp strands of hair, Ashlynn warily peeks over the platform's edge in both directions before she pulls herself up onto the same level. A long look is given the prince's weapons leaning near to Vhramis, and as she reaches out gingerly to take the bow, she waits until he has just loosed an arrow before commenting sardonically to the current lord of Crown's Refuge, "Do not worry for your back; if any should manage to climb up here, I am sure this would make just as effective a cudgel." Wolfsbane almost jumps at the sudden voice behind him, the man so startled that his own muttering ceases. He whirls about to regard Ashlynn, his eyes widening to large saucers. "Ash? Wha...what th-...how in...Talus is going to /kill/ me! Get back to Fastheld!" Watching the seething mass from slightly behind the main group of the front wave, his claws clean of the blood-slick ground that rests slightly higher up, the Warchief of this current mass of Wildling howls something in guttural tones that speaks of obvious displeasure of the lack of progress. So much so, in fact, that his anger is vented upon the nearest thing he can find; his 'friend', standing close by. A 'friend' that soon finds it's throat torn out by rending claws before it can even register the betrayal, pulled up into those same claws, and then violently tossed to the left towards the shimmering band of Wildlings to the west of the main gate. That will breed results! ROAR! ROA-'' ''The Warchief takes a few moments to ponder this, primitive mind churning over the details that are screaming that something is wrong. Only wet Wildlings shine. Are the Wildlings wet? No. Has it been raining? No. Hmm... then... those cannot be Wildlings, for Wildlings do not shine in dry weather! Result! The Warchief allows itself a toothy grin at it's own intelligence, bashing itself on the side of the head in victory! Claws rapping on the Iron Helm it found and now wears. A... not Wildlings?! ROAR! "You have nothing to do with whatever trouble I get myself into. Talus will just have to realize this early on, as I have no doubt that I will try such perceptions many times throughout our lives," Ashlynn retorts calmly, testing the bow's draw with a grimace before resolutely putting an arrow to the string. "Can't miss at this rate," she mutters disheartedly as she looks down at the teaming mass of shadowy hides beneath them, and then taking a deep breath, taking aim. "May I suggest that you have other, more important things to direct your attention to?" she reminds before drawing and releasing. There is no skill or grace in the sound or movement of the bow's release, mere memories of past instruction managing to cast the arrow on a relatively straight path onto the enemies below - but it is more than enough, with gravity's help, when the sharpened broadhead plunges through thin skin. Vhramis' mouth snaps shut, having effectively been put in his place. "Never question a woman," he says to himself, perhaps making a mental note of it as he spins back to look down upon the melee once again. "Spread your legs a bit," he calls to his friend as he fires an arrow. "It'll help you balance better." Distractedly trying to nock an arrow while picking out another likely target area to try and aim for, it is a moment before Vhramis' helpful 'tip' sinks in and she turns to stare at him. Then, nerves still jittery from too many shocks and adrenaline, she gives a single sharp laugh before complying with his observation, correcting her stance and sending another arrow wavering down into the attackers. Engaged as he is, Vhramis still somehow doesn't miss the odd look he recieves from Ashlynn. "Why is everyone staring at me like that lately?" he bemoans, before looking down to the swirl of attackers and defenders. "Switch out on the left side!" he shouts. "Fresh men up, tired men back." "What? Only lately?" Ashlynn snipes back, even as she engages a third arrow. The rhythm of their banter is just as familiar and comfortable as breathing, and the grimness of the battlefield eases with every opportunity at a retort. Down below, it seems something just happened to piss off the Wildling Chieftan even more, who now - with a resounding ROAR of annoyance, charges off towards the left flank upon the other side of the Palisade Gate. Not at Serath's defending group, but at something beyond it. He leaves more than one dead Wildling in his wake; the result of merciless claws and bloodlust. The battle of words between Ashlynn and himself seems to ease Vhramis as well, making the conflict below seem a bit more distant...and causing his arrows to fly a bit more true in the calm he finds from her proximity. Though that calm is shattered by the roar of the massive wildling as he charges off. "...what? What is that?" he calls, looking away to attempt to see what it charged off after. Ashlynn's lips purse upon another reflexive retort before she realizes that he is not jesting, turning to lean out from beside him to see what he is talking about. "Should we be worried?" she begins with a small frown, absently rubbing at shoulder an arm to ease the strain of trying to wield the prince's bow despite general fitness from a life outdoors. "Though it looks like the Wildlings are concerned rather than celebrating reinforcements - is the lady dragoness still away? Would they send help? Or - Vhramis," she interrupts herself with an excited gleam in her eyes. "I was just on my way to tell you... Lucius Nepos and his party had been dispatched a while ago...they should be wandering around this area about now..." "If that's them..." Vhramis responds, looking down to the trail of destruction that the charging wildling has wrought. His voice grows with new urgency as he turns about to look to his friend. "Ash, we have to get to the other side of the breech. We can't shoot at it from here." And he's off, rushing to the ladder to climb down it as quickly as he can. Ashlynn is left gaping for a moment before his logic sinks in and she hurriedly hitches Serath's quiver over her shoulder, awkwardly swinging the bow around as well so that she can slide down the ladder after Vhramis. On the ground, Vhramis glances behind him to be sure Ashlynn is following, before he turns about to make his way around the backs of the horde of defenders clogging the gate entrance. Being lower to the earth affords him a new view of the chaos, a grim look setting upon his face. Already familiar with the scene, nevertheless, Ashlynn winces anew at the fresh Wildling carcasses and human bodies scattered about. Her steps drag for a moment, responsibility prompting her to look around for those she had pressed into help for the wounded, before the sight of several of them still sneaking back to snatch hurt allies out of the melee prompts her to breathe out in relief. Shrugging the slipping quiver back up her shoulder, she quickly makes up for the gap between her and Vhramis, aiming for the ladders to the other section of the palisade. "Light, don't be dead," Vhramis mutters to himself. A prayer, perhaps? He jumps at the ladder as he reaches it and scrambles to the top, rushing to the edge and looking over as soon as he can. Below, the Chieftan has begun a private battle with two humans - a Blade and a Darkwater Deeper, it seems - away from the general swarm at the main gates. Other Blades and Privateers battle on the left flank, and Serath's defenders - and a hard pressed Prince that seems to be holding his own, but for how much longer? - at the main press. The Chieftan seems to have accepted a blow to the cut, roaring in pain, and then swipes at one of the two attacking him. The Bladesman, it seems, with a glowing shield shaped like a Drake. He blocks. The two attack once more. Ashlynn is little more than a stride behind Vhramis, panting in her efforts to keep up with him, leaning against the upper palisade's guarding edge. "It's him! It is Lucius..." she gasps, before grimacing and glancing between the two most pressing points of the battle. "I can't aim - you help him, Vhramis," she says grimly as she sets her borrowed quiver down, already swinging the bow into her grip. "I'll keep plunking away at the main swarm." Vhramis Wolfsbane nods his head to Ashlynn in agreement. "We have to hold, but if they break the gate, Ash, get back to the house and return to Fastheld. Someone has to tell Talus of what occurred." The bow is swung back down from Vhramis' shoulder, and one of the few remaining arrows drawn from his quiver. "Shades," he curses, watching the Deeper in apparent dire straights. "Blackskin!" he bellows down to the chief, trying to distract it, and firing a shot. Below, the Chieftan accepts two more stabs from the two attacking warriors, but then retaliates with a claw sweep across both; the Bladesman blocking once again, reeling under the impact, but the other taking a nasty gash across the chest. Ashlynn does not argue the point, though her eyes narrow and her mouth tightens in reflexive disagreement to Vhramis' instructions. The bitterness of such an option only prompts her to draw the bow even farther, channeling her frustration into the missiles raining down on the Wildlings. "Blackskin!" Vhramis shouts again, pulling forth another arrow and nocking it. Despite any language differences, he seems intent on still shouting at the creature. "When the night is done, I'll carve the heart from your chest!" An outlet for his anger and frustration, and the remembered pain at the claws of it and it's like. Evading another swipe from a wounded Deeper, but accepting another deep wound to the shoulder from the Bladesman, the Chieftan bellows with rage, makes ready to lunge... and then falls to his knees as the first arrow causes him to stagger, the arrow from the glowing Warbow taking him between the shoulder blades. Wounded, but not yet down for the count, rage and sheer fury have him lunging at the Bladesman once more. A lunge that is again blocked. Ashlynn's arms tremble as she fires off another shot, and then she is forced to pause with a hiss as abused muscles protest vehemently. She winces at Vhramis' taunt, sneaking a glance toward the smaller but no less concerning battle on his side, her stances straightening in hope as his arrow flies true, but breath still held in fear and anticipation as the Wildling Warchief fights on. The Lady's Flight is lifted once again, and it's arrow leveled at the fight below, it's target once again the fierce black wildling. The string is drawn back, and Vhramis narrows his eyes as he aims, and lets loose. The wounded Chieftain evades the Deeper once more; is stricken by the Bladesman once more. Lunges at both once more. Misses both once more. Is taken in the leg by another vicious arrow. Howls with rage and pain. Meanwhile, the battle for the Palisade continues around them. Serath still at work with those twin Rapiers, those behind him supporting with whatever weapons they can find, the Blades and the Deepers cutting into the dark mass from the left flank, and the Archers above raining fire down upon anything they can hit. How much longer everyone can last is still a question that has no answer, but it seems hope is now well and alive in those that still draw breath. Ashlynn smiles tightly upon seeing the warchief staggered, and then remembering her own task, however meager the contributions, she resolutely shakes her drawing arm out and then tries to make the last few arrows within the quiver count for their most. And Vhramis draws his last arrow, the man taking brief note of this, though dismissing it as something he knew was going to happen eventually. "Ash, this is it, and I'm out. And I need to join the fight below," he tells her, fitting it to his bow, and aiming below. He draws a steadying breath, before firing again. Avoiding two more strikes, the Wildling below seeks a new quarry. With a vast sweep of limbs, the Chieftain fells a third human who had the bravado to whack him with a leather bag. He leaps atop the fallen miner, dark claws rending through fabric and flesh alike as the Warchief rakes his talons across Dirk; a slash across the chest, a second slash across the leg, a third slash across the arm, and then jaws lunge to tear out the man's thr-'' ''THUD! A third arrow, loosed from a Marksman with a Seraphite Warbow, ends the Dark Wildling Chieftain's fury there and then, crashing through the creature's neck without prior warning and stealing the anger from the behemoth's attack. Limbs that no longer have strength fall limp at the Chieftain's side. Legs that will no longer support him collapse beneath. The Wildling falls, breathing shallow breaths atop that which was unfortunate to be beneath him. Bubbles of blood line the corners of the creature's mouth. All fury ended. Ashlynn tilts her head at Vhramis' words, releasing her currently nocked arrow before hooking up the quiver's strap and swinging the remaining four arrows within it toward him. "Make the last of them count, then," she informs curtly as she lays the prince's bow aside with a touch of relief. "Then we can get down there to see how the others fare." But Vhramis doesn't answer immediately, instead letting out a loud hoot. Rushing to the edge of the breech, he calls to the melee below. "Their champion has fallen! Fight, friends. We can win this yet!" He turns about to tug an arrow from the offered quiver, and sends it flying down at another wildling target. The Chieftain falls, and a wounded Deeper draws closer to deliver one final judgment. A vicious downward thrust strikes the prone Wildling Chieftain without mercy nor hesitation; the cold bite of Wilesly blade sinking deep into dark flesh, severing spine and ribs in equal measure, cutting through internal organs with abandon, the striking through the creature's chest with a sickening gout of blood and gore, to drive deep into the earth below. Just to the left of Dirk's crotch. A little to the side of his thigh. Phew. Watching their Chieftain fall, and considering the death of those around them, atop the previous death of their beloved "Shaman" - the Wildling Mage that hurled a the initial fireball - and finding attackers on all sides, a vicious ghost at their front, cutting them down with twin strikes of deadly rapiers, and an avenging angel above, launching a hellfire of death upon them, the morale of all Wildlings finally breaks. The "easy slaughter" of those within Crown's Refuge has not gone as planned, and so they break. And scatter. And rout. Back into the darkness. Back across the bloodied husks of their former comrades. Back into the realm of nightmares. Ashlynn willingly acts as ammunition dispenser while she looks worriedly over the field, checking for potential pockets of trouble even as she slowly begins to relax with the scramble of Wildlings away from the battle. Vhramis Wolfsbane glowers at the withdrawing creatures, taking the opportunity to fire one last arrow at their backs. That done, he looks to Ashlynn. "We need to get below," he tells her, despite the fact that she most likely already knows. The ranger slings the bow back over his shoulder and makes way for the ladder, beginning to descend. Ashlynn simply nods, any retorts stolen as the knowledge of Crown's Refuge's survival begins to impress itself upon her. Mutely slinging the quiver back over her shoulder and settling it properly across her chest this time, she carefully stows the bow in a similar method before following Vhramis down at a far slower pace than before, favoring a rapidly stiffening arm. The scene at the Main Gates - or, rather, what used to be the Main Gates - is a grim and solemn one indeed. The battle may have been won, but with losses as heavy as they are, it would seem that very few people have a cause to celebrate victory. A quarter of the population dead. Defenders flank the approaching Deepers and Bladesmen on either side of the ruined and scorched gate; the wood of the Palisade scorched black where it isn't tinted red with blood. Numerous furrows - made by claw and sword alike - are etched deep into the defending wall, while weapons and the dead are scattered upon the ground. Defenders, defenders, and a regal commander sat with his back against the ball and a leg set into an arched position as ice-blue eyes regard the reinforcements that turned the battle into a grim victory. "Well met." A bloodied Serath Kahar purrs, offering a half-salute with a rapier still slick with crimson. One rapier. Where the other has gone is anyone's guess. A long night indeed. ---- ''Return to Season 4 (2006) Category:Logs